Our pilgrimages to St. John's, occurring twice a year, were of a
singular description: not only in the manner of our progress, which
was unexampled, in view of our relationship and condition, but in the
impenetrable character of our mission and in the air of low rascality
it unfailingly wore. For many days before our departure from Twist
Tickle by the outside boat, my uncle would quit the Green Bull
grounds, where he fished with hook and line, would moor his punt fore
and aft, and take to the bleak hills of Twin Islands, there (it
seemed) to nurse some questionable design: whence at dusk he would
emerge, exhausted in leg and spirit, but yet with strength to mutter
obscure imprecations as he came tapping up the gravelled walk from the
gate, and with the will to manage a bottle and glass in the kitchen.
"The bottle!" cries he. "Ecod! the dog'll never scare ol' Nick Top.
Dannie, the bottle!"
While I fled for this he would sit growling by the table; but before I
was well returned the humor would be vanishing, so that sometimes I
guessed (but might be mistaken) he practised this rage and profanity
to play a part.
"Ol' Nick Top," says he, "is as saucy a dog as you'll find in the
pack!"
'Twas said with a snap.
"A saucy ol' dog!" snarls he. "An' Lord love ye! but he's able
t'--t'--t' _bite_!"
"Uncle Nick," says I, "you're all wore out along o' walkin' them
hills."
"Wore out!" cries he, an angry flash in his wide little eyes. "_Me_
wore out?... Pass the bottle.... Ye'd never think it, lad, an ye could
see me t' St. John's," says he, "at the--"
The revelation came to a full stop with the tipping of the square
black bottle.
"Where's that?" says I.
"'Tis a wee water-side place, lad," says he, with a grave wink, "where
ol' Nick Top's the sauciest dog in the pack!"